


Line Drive

by Mithrigil



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Baseball, Bullying, Childhood, First Meetings, Friendship, Gen, School, that little guy from brooklyn who could never back down from a fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 11:00:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1508093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithrigil/pseuds/Mithrigil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve needs someone to draw for a homework assignment, and gets more than he hoped for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Line Drive

**October 21st, 1927  
P.S. 10A, Brooklyn, New York**

“And this weekend, we have a special homework assignment,” Miss McNulty says, in that kind of voice that usually means something _she_ thinks is special and everyone else thinks means extra instead. “Since next week we are going to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, I thought it would be best to give everyone a chance to experience what it’s like to be an artist.”

Steve looks up from where he’s already doodled a robin in the corner of his notebook.

“Everyone must draw a portrait. Remind everyone, Myrna, what a portrait is?”

The chattiest girl in the front row puts her hand down and answers. “A portrait is a picture of a person!”

“That’s correct. But it’s more than _of_ , it’s _about_. A portrait is a picture _about_ a person. So when you choose who you draw a portrait of, pick someone you like, so you can share something about that person with everyone in the class.”

“But Missus McNulty, that’s for girls!” Eddie Giuliani whines from the back row. Steve rolls his eyes, because whenever Eddie speaks up --

“Yeah!” Peter Samuels shouts right next to him, right on schedule. “We shouldn’t all have to do something if it’s something girls do.”

Before Miss McNulty has to say anything, Steve turns around and tells those jerks, “Knock it off. Art isn’t just for girls. All the most famous painters in the museum are men.”

Peter laughs at him, which isn’t news. “Yeah, men like you -- which means they’re really _girls_.”

Whenever Peter or Eddie laughs at Steve (which happens a lot), all their friends laugh too, which means the entire back row and most of the middle. It hurts a little but they’re all stupid bullies anyway, so Steve just tells them all, “It’s true! Miss McNulty, isn’t it true?”

She smiles a little, even if she looks kind of tense at being interrupted. “It’s true. Most of the pictures in the museum were done by men. So you have no excuse --”

“But were they girly men like Shrimp?” Eddie yells, which gets everyone laughing at Steve again.

Miss McNulty raps her fist on the corner of the desk. She’s not smiling anymore. “Mr. Giuliani. I would have explained it to you if you hadn’t interrupted me. Now you’ll have to find that answer for yourself.” She turns to write a name on the chalkboard. “In addition to the rest of your homework, Mr. Giuliani, you are to turn in a 500 word composition on an artist named Vermeer. Stay after class so I can write a note to your parents. Any questions?”

That stops everyone laughing, that’s for sure. “Yes, Missus McNulty,” Eddie says, and Steve can feel him glaring at the back of his head. It serves him right, though.

“Does anyone else have any questions about this assignment?”

Myrna, in front, raises her hand again, and gets called on. “Can we paint, or does it have to be drawing? Ooh, and can we use pastels?”

“You can use whatever art materials you have at hand. Just pencil is all right too. Anyone else?”

Steve raises his hand. “Can it be a portrait of anyone?”

Well, that made Miss McNulty smile again, so Steve feels better for having asked. “Well, I would rather you not do a self-portrait. And make sure that the person you pick is someone you can spend a lot of time with. Does that answer your question, Steven?”

Not quite, since Steve still doesn’t know who he’ll draw, but he doesn’t want to take up too much more of class time. He’ll ask after. “It does. Thank you, ma’am.”

“Anyone else?” When no one else speaks up, Miss McNulty says, “Class dismissed,” and everyone scurries to get out. A lot of the girls in the front row are already talking about drawing pictures of each other, and some of the boys are grumbling, but Steve just concentrates on getting his books into his satchel. By the time most of the other kids are out the door, Steve has a clear path to Miss McNulty’s desk, so he takes it.

She looks up from writing the note to Eddie’s parents. “Yes, Steven? You have another question?”

“May I draw you, ma’am?”

Steve thinks Miss McNulty would be really pretty to draw: she has dark blue eyes and almost black hair that always looks like it’s tucked under a hat even if she doesn’t wear one indoors, and right now she’s smiling but trying to cover her mouth like she’s embarrassed about her teeth. But he thinks she might be blushing a little and that’s not a good thing, since people only blush when they’re embarrassed and he didn’t mean to embarrass her. “Oh, Steven,” she says, “that’s very sweet of you, but I did say that it should be someone you can spend a lot of time with, and you won’t see me until Monday.” 

“Oh,” he says, because he must have _really_ embarrassed her. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

She lowers her voice. “I know you’re worried about finding someone to draw, and that you can’t fall back on your mother, but I’m sure there’s someone in your building who’ll have time for you. But it was very kind of you to ask me.”

Steve nods and shoulders his satchel. “All right. Thank you, Miss McNulty. Have a good weekend.”

“You too, Steven,” she says,” and Steve heads out the classroom door.

***

_Maybe Mr. Jefferson,_ Steve thinks as he waits at a crosswalk. The son of the woman who owns the laundry downstairs is always looking for an excuse to get out of the shop, and if he’s helping Steve with his homework his mother might let him. _Or maybe Mrs. Rosenberg._ She has no trouble sitting still for long periods of time; she sits on the porch of the house across the street all day anyway. But her face has a lot of wrinkles and is probably really hard to draw and still be nice-looking, and Steve knows that women don’t like people pointing out their wrinkles and a portrait’s supposed to be honest. So he should be both honest and nice, which means he should find someone who won’t mind him being honest.

The crossing guard gives the all-clear, and Steve crosses the street, tries looking at all the people around him for ideas. He doesn’t know too many people outside of his class, and the grown-ups he knows in his neighborhood are always busy, and the kids on his street always try to keep him out of their ball games so they probably won’t want to help him with an assignment. It can’t hurt to ask, and he’ll ask if he doesn’t have any better ideas.

Ma sometimes brings home other nurses or trainees from the ward, but she’s barely home at all these days since so many people are getting sick. And even if she brings someone home there’s no guarantee she’ll sit for a portrait. And Ma says that Steve can’t go by the ward himself anymore since his lungs are bad enough as it is.

“Hey Shrimp,” Eddie says behind him, and Steve doesn’t get to turn around before he gets shoved hard into a row of trashcans.

He spins to face them as fast as he can, which isn’t fast at all, and then someone, probably Peter, socks him in the face and spins him around again. It hurts, a lot, but he’s gotten worse, from bigger jerks than these two, and he wipes his jaw like it’ll take away the pain, not just the dirt. “Shouldn’t you be at the library?”

“It’s your fault I got extra homework, you little wiseass,” Eddie snarls.

He grabs for Steve again, but Steve gets out of the way, only to run smack into Peter’s outstretched foot. Steve crashes into the trashcans again and tries to shield himself with his satchel. It works -- mostly -- enough for Steve to yell, “No, it’s your own fault for disrespecting the teacher! _And_ you’re wrong!”

That gets him kicked in the mouth. Good thing that baby tooth was already loose. “Teacher’s pet!” one of them yells, Steve can’t tell which, he’s coughing too hard. “You gonna tell her about this too?”

The next kick sends Steve skidding on the concrete, deeper into the alley, and his head hits a crate. He scrambles to his feet as best he can and turns around to face them, put his fists up. “Maybe. What’s it to you?”

It turns out it was Eddie who spoke. He’s got blood on his knuckles. It’s probably Steve’s. “Nothing! Just so long as she’s the only one in the world who likes a shrimp like you, it doesn’t matter to me.” Then he grins, big enough to eat up half his face. “But so long as you’re her pet, you’re gonna do that stupid homework for me.”

“No way! You did the crime, so you do the time!”

“I’ll make you!”

“Go ahead and try!”

He charges at Steve with a wallop of a punch, and Steve doesn’t quite duck in time. But he does hit back, even if it whiffs on Eddie’s jaw. After that Eddie grabs his fists and throws him into Peter, and Peter puts him in a chokehold, and maybe this _is_ the worst fight Steve’s gotten into in a while --

\-- and someone just threw a baseball smack into the back of Eddie’s head. Something cracks, and then the ball rolls on the concrete into the pile of trash.

Peter drops Steve right on his behind. Steve’s not sure he feels it at all.

There’s a boy in the mouth of the alleyway, about the same size as these two goons, wearing a mitt and a washed-out Robins baseball cap. The blue stripes and bill are the same color as his eyes. “How about picking on someone your own size?”

“How about shutting up?” Peter says, and Eddie helpfully adds a “Yeah!” while rubbing the welt on the back of his head.

“Nah,” the boy says. Then he punches his mitt. “If you want a fight, I’ll even the odds.” Then he charges into the alleyway like he knows what he’s doing, right over Steve on the ground, and lands a right hook that makes Peter’s nose crunch like crackerjack.

Peter starts crying, and Eddie starts running away, but Steve mostly just sits there looking up.

A few seconds later, they’re the only two people in the alley, and Steve’s still staring. The boy looks down at him and grins, says “Okay down there?” He’s got a couple new teeth growing in too, but he’s smiling so wide that Steve can almost count them.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Steve says, because they’re about the only words he can find.

“He was kicking your butt!”

“Yeah, but he would have stopped sooner or later.” Steve looks around for the baseball, scoots over to find it, and hands it over. “Thank you, though.”

When the boy takes the ball in his throwing hand, he also pulls Steve up off the ground. “Yeah, he’dve stopped when you broke something. You’ve got to hurt them before they hurt you!”

“Easy for you to say,” Steve says.

“You looked like you were trying to hit back.”

“Yeah, but I don’t like to hit first. That’s the kind of thing _they_ do.” Steve finds his tooth on the ground, bends over to pick it up. Maybe it still counts for the tooth fairy. He puts it in his pocket, turns around, and just barely remembers to wipe off his hand on his pants -- even though that’s kind of pointless since the boy already helped him up. “I’m Steve.”

“Bucky,” the boy says, shaking Steve’s hand, a little hard, but then he punches a little hard too. “It’s really James, but only Grandma calls me that.”

“Nice to meet you, Bucky,” Steve says. “And thanks again.” He feels weird, like there’s something else he could say, but he’s not sure what that is, so he says nothing. He just grabs his satchel again and dusts himself off a little more.

And he’s about to give up and say _See you around_ when Bucky cuts in, “Do you go to 10A?”

“-- Yeah,” Steve says, a little startled. “Do you?”

“Yeah. Who’s your teacher?”

“Miss McNulty.”

“Oh! I had her last year.”

“You’re in fifth grade?”

“Yeah. Guess that explains why I don’t know you.”

Steve tries to remember if he’s ever seen Bucky around at school, and can’t. He hasn’t seen him around the neighborhood either, and that’s a little stranger. But he can ask more about that later, and says, “Guess you do now.”

Bucky smiles, and says, “Come on. Wanna come to the park? We need a couple more for baseball,” and he’s tugging Steve out of the alleyway before Steve manages to say yes.

***

It starts getting dark earlier than Steve wants it to, at the top of the eighth inning. Steve’s hit the ball a grand total of once, and even got to first base, but the fifth graders caught him on a double play on the next hitter. And he hasn’t seen much action playing third base since Bucky’s pitched the whole game and he’s _good_. Really good. _Why isn’t he in the NABF junior league_ good. But it’s fun to be around people who aren’t beating him up or making fun of him -- well, who aren’t making fun of him that much, it’s baseball, but everybody’s making fun of everybody so it doesn’t count.

The streetlights come on, and Steve’s not the only one who should have been home hours ago, and everyone splits off in twos and threes. Bucky swings around the dugout post into Steve’s face to pick up his bat. “Good game!”

“Yeah.” It really was. “Thanks for letting me play.”

“Anytime! You live around here?”

“Yeah, on Pioneer Street.”

“That’s not too far. I live on the other side of the Gowanus, but it’s still close. The parks are better on this side.” He lowers his voice, glances over his shoulder at the streetlights. “Are you gonna be okay getting home?”

“Yeah, I think you scared those jerks off.”

“Okay. And I mean it -- you can play with us anytime. You’re not bad! You just need to work on your arm.” He grabs Steve’s arm, like he’s making a point, and Steve elbows him off, but they both laugh, and it’s okay. It’s really okay.

Steve asks, “Is there a game tomorrow?”

“Nah, about half of these guys have to go to Jewish church or something. But we usually get one going on Sunday.”

“I can do Sunday.”

“Great! Meet here at three?”

“Sure!” That’ll give him plenty of time to do his --

\-- _homework._

“Bucky?”

Bucky had turned around to go, but he turns back again. “Yeah?”

“You had Miss McNulty last year, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Did she make you guys draw portraits for homework?”

Bucky beams, and Steve not only knows that he’s going to say _yes_ , Steve knows exactly what he wants to draw.

***

**October 24th, 1927  
P.S. 10A, Brooklyn, New York**

“Thank you, Sophie, that was very good! I feel like I know your aunt now. All right, who’s next...?”

Steve doesn’t raise his hand, but he does look up, and Miss McNulty calls on him anyway. The bullies in the back row grumble, but it’s easy enough to ignore, and Steve just raises his eyebrows at them when he turns around.

Then he unrolls the picture carefully, holds it up in front of him, and checks the paperclip on the back to make sure he says everything he means to.

“This is my friend Bucky Barnes,” he says. “It’s really James Buchanan Barnes, but everyone calls him Bucky, except his grandmother. I met him on the way home from school on Friday. He’s in Missus Hotchkins’s class in the fifth grade, and he’s really good at baseball. That’s why I drew him with the Robins cap he was wearing on Friday. He said he wears it everywhere except church.

“I drew him at Red Hook Park because when I tried to draw him at my house he couldn’t sit still. So we went outside. He said that playing catch with himself was like sitting still, and I said that was okay. That’s why there’s the brick wall on one side and the trees on the other.” Also, bricks are really easy to draw, but Steve doesn’t say that. “I tried to get his smile right, because he smiles a lot. The dark lines aren’t mistakes, they’re missing teeth. And I was going to color it in, but I couldn’t get pastels or colored inks, so I got some dye from the laundry downstairs. I tried to color his eyes first, but it was really hard to use the dye without a brush, and Bucky said he liked it with just the eyes colored in, so I kept it that way.”

Everyone in the class has been listening politely, even the jerks in the back. Peter is covering his bandaged nose and Eddie’s glowering, but he isn’t saying anything. That’s...really nice, actually.

“I don’t know Bucky very well yet,” Steve goes on. “But I think I got to know him because of doing the portrait. It’s hard to show a person, so I think that artists must be really good at looking at people. I want to be good at that too. Thank you.”

Miss McNulty claps her hands, just like she did for everyone else’s portraits, and a few other people join in. Steve smiles, turns away to put the picture on the pile on the desk. He did a good job, he thinks, even if other people had more paints and pastels, or knew their portraits better.

***

And at the end of the day, Bucky’s waiting for him at the corner of the schoolyard, grinning under the brim of his hat.

****


End file.
